


Chaos of Limbo

by Spencer5460



Category: Wild Wild West (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Gen, The Night of the Lord of Limbo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 17:22:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8219005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spencer5460/pseuds/Spencer5460
Summary: A look into Artie/Jack's thoughts as he dueled with James."Jack took in his wavy brown hair the color of coffee with just a touch of cream, and his eyes – he knew he’d looked into those eyes before but he couldn’t place where or when.  It was this man’s face that seemed oddly more familiar to him than Levering’s."





	

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone unfamiliar with the episode - this is not a death story. Thankfully, for Jim. Can be read with or without slash goggles.

**Chaos of Limbo**

“And I’d choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I’d find you and I’d choose you.”

"The Chaos of Stars" - Kiersten White 

ooOOoo

The memories of a hundred lifetimes swirled in Jack Mateland’s head. Musician, bard, adventurer. Lover. Even now he wasn’t sure whose life he was living as he galloped toward his predestined appointment. 

Although he couldn’t recall the exact exchange, the remnants of last night’s insult stirred his blood like a stick poking at hot coals, reheating his passion. How dare that Yankee drag his boots across Southern soil? Every man had his place to be sure, but what did a foot soldier know of home and hearth; the destruction his kind had wreaked throughout a land of grace and gentility?

Somehow Jack knew deep in his soul that no matter what reincarnation he awoke to, he would be a man to stand up to tyrants.

The sun hung lower in the trees than just a few minutes before. _Damn._ It must be later than he thought. He laid a riding crop to his mount’s flank then checked the blow. His lagging wasn’t his horse’s fault. 

His companions were waiting for him in the clearing, along with Jack’s old friend, Charles Levering. The one who’d supposedly known Jack since he was a child. The one who tried to talk him out of this meeting yet who came to stand beside him anyway. 

Then Jack saw the man dressed in blue. His suit was form-fitting enough to clearly show the muscles in his thighs and the tautness of his abdomen. Jack took in his wavy brown hair the color of coffee with just a touch of cream, and his eyes – he knew he’d looked into those eyes before but he couldn’t place where or when. It was this man’s face that seemed oddly more familiar to him than Levering’s. 

That unsettling thought must have come to Jack the night before. Wasn't that the reason he’d stopped off at the tavern to delay this rendezvous? He’d needed time to think – not for a way out of his challenge but to sort through the chaos in his head. It was as if he were a marionette with someone unseen jerking the strings.

The perplexing pull only got stronger as Levering began to recite of the rules of the duel until the Yankee interrupted.

“I just remembered an important appointment elsewhere,” he announced and turned to walk away. 

“Indeed? Or is it perhaps a sudden drop in the temperature of your lower extremities, _country cousin?”_ Jack spat out.

But Levering apparently noticed the exit attempt for what it was and offered the familiar stranger an out. “You will, of course, apologize, sir.”

“I don’t know what for, but I apologize.” The man in blue swept his hand forward and dipped at the waist with the grace of a guest at a cotillion rather than an adversary about to fight to the death.

Jack’s thoughts clanged like a ghastly church bell making them difficult to process clearly. “Unacceptable,” he found himself insisting. “You insulted me last night, you should have apologized last night.”

Strange how Jack could feel the sting of insult urging him on like the cut of a whip but couldn’t recall exactly what had transpired. It no longer mattered. Honor was honor and he would defend it to the death. Since the end of the war and of their way of life, there were so few things left to fight for.

“Stand back, gentlemen. I’m going to stitch up a shroud for ‘Reuben’ here.” Jack took his epée and whipped the air.

“Now let’s drop it, Mateland. Your honor’s satisfied.” Levering stepped in once more. Jack would have none of it. 

“That’s for honor, sir. I want this bumpkin’s blood.” He circled the man like a tiger sizing up his prey.

“Now sir, you’re going to get your first lessons in the use of weapons of defense.” Jack pointed with his blade. “That thing behind you is an epée. Pick it up.”

The man didn’t need the weapon to pierce Jack through, his eyes were just as effective. Jack felt a potent mix of confusion and concern as the man in blue trained his gaze on him. But by now Jack was like a locomotive steaming downhill, unable to stop. He swiped at the man’s chest, slicing with expertise through his blue silk vest. The man looked down at the slice dumbfounded.

“I said, pick it up.” Jack pressed.

At last the man reached for the weapon and took a fighting stance. He was no country bumpkin after, all but a highly skilled opponent, perhaps even more skilled that Jack himself. But Jack couldn’t be certain since he still acted reluctant to engage him fully.

“Your final lesson will be how to die gracefully, in style. But first, I shall give you some of the finer points of fencing,” Jack goaded, well aware by now his foe needed no lessons.

Suddenly, a shot rang out and Levering crumpled to the ground. 

“Levering!” Jack rushed to the older man, laying still on the ground and found their small party surrounded by a gang of blood-thirsty bandits.

“By glory, if you’ve killed Levering, I’ll . . . “

“Don’t be a fool, Jack. They have two guns.” The stranger coolly interjected, as if they’d been taking a stroll through the countryside rather than fighting for their lives. 

Their eyes met and something passed between them. “That’s right. They have two pistols don’t they.” Jack acknowledged ominously.

“Hand over your purses and your pretties,” the gang’s leader demanded.

“Let’s not keep the gentlemen waiting.” Rather than comply, however, Jack and his opponent stepped forward as one with their blades, taking on the group of thugs. Their deft moves seemed practiced. Despite being outnumbered, it appeared they might be able gain the upper hand until Jack’s weapon slipped from his hand. 

“Jack!” The man in blue shouted and tossed a foil up into the air. Jack reached out and caught it as easily as a plucking a floating tuft of cotton. 

At that precise moment a second shot split the air and Jack felt the stab of a white hot poker in his gut. He fell to the ground, his marionette strings cut, and then into the arms of the stranger.

He knew he was dying, this short life passing before his eyes. Yet there were other lives he had lived and the man who held him was in every one of them. “You, know, it’s an odd thing, Reuben. By the way, what is your name?”

“West. James West.”

“How do you do, James.” The name felt rich and warm as melted butter on Jack’s tongue; James’ strong arms comforting. “As I was saying, it’s an odd thing, but I have this ridiculous feeling that you and I have done all this before. Isn’t that ridiculous?”

James said nothing, pain and disbelief blanching his chiseled face.

Jack longed to see him smile one last time. “It was fun while it lasted, wasn’t it James?”

“It’s not over yet.” James insisted as if he had power to change the past, present and future. “I’ve gone to too much trouble to find you.” 

Jack saw the world was spinning in his green eyes.

“You . . . were trying to find . . . me?” It was getting harder and harder to draw breath.

And the stage faded to black.

**FIN**


End file.
